SAN JUAN, P.R.—The Luis Muñoz Marín Airport here is bustling even in the earliest hours of the morning. People wheel around elderly relatives in need of dialysis, hoping to get a spot on flights that have been overbooked, even though many airlines have resumed full menus of flights to the mainland. Several other people are visitors with no intent at all of flying out—it’s just that the airport is one of the few stable sources of power and cell signal in the city, where street lights and turn signals are all completely dark through the day and night, and where hundreds of people queue in front of government buildings for a spot of WiFi or a phone charge to call relatives.

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These conditions represent the best-case scenario right now on the island of Puerto Rico, which is still in need of immediate relief three weeks after the landfall of Hurricane Maria. While some of the worst-hit areas in San Juan have suffered catastrophic damage—the La Perla neighborhood where the music video for Luis Fonsi’s “Despacito” was shot has been almost completely destroyed—the situation elsewhere is much more dire.

Interior towns like Utuado and Barranquitas face total isolation, landslides, and dwindling supplies. FEMA estimates that over a third of the islanders are in need of water, a fact underscored by alarming reports that some people have tried to obtain drinking water from contaminated EPA Superfund sites. In all, millions of people are struggling to find basic necessities, and the presence of federal aid has been tenuous or lacking in rural areas. People are dying, and people will likely continue to die from worsening illnesses.

It’s with this slow recovery ongoing that President Trump began a series of tweets on Thursday morning that seemed to imply he might pull the plug on federal aid to Puerto Rico. “We cannot keep FEMA, the military & the first responders, who have been amazing (under the most difficult circumstances) in [Puerto Rico] forever,” Trump said. He cited a financial crisis “largely of their own making,” as well as the island’s crumbling infrastructure before the storm—suggesting he would seek to place more of the burden of saving Puerto Rico on Puerto Ricans.

That implication is in line with previous statements Trump has made about the island’s people. In tweets late last month, he attacked the mayor of San Juan, Carmen Yulín Cruz, for her “poor leadership ability”; said Puerto Ricans “are not able to get their workers to help” with the recovery effort; and alleged that “they want everything to be done for them when it should be a community effort.”

His comments Thursday also come as the future of aid to the island remains uncertain. Both the local and federal governments will have to contend with Puerto Rico’s crushing debt, which Trump floated canceling in a Fox News interview earlier this month. Since then, however, the administration has reversed course, promising to hold Puerto Rico to its obligations.

The exact shape of an initial relief package from Congress is as-yet unknown, but it could echo the White House’s position. The Intercept has reported that early versions of the debt-relief bill would appropriate few funds directly to Puerto Rico, instead creating a general relief fund that it would share with states affected by hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria. Most of the funds earmarked specifically for the territory would come in the form of a $5 billion loan, not a grant, which would only add to its staggering debt. Puerto Rico—which already turned down a similar loan principle from its bondholders—might not have room to negotiate or outright reject any deal. It’s expected the territorial government will run out of money this month.

This message out of Washington amounts to a doctrine of personal responsibility and culpability applied only to Puerto Rico and its people—not the other areas of the United States affected by recent storms. The federal government appears willing to forgive some of the debt of the National Flood Insurance Program, and it has provided much more comprehensive relief support for states hit by hurricanes. That doctrine has developed as federal and charity aid has been slow or has failed to materialize in some of the most desperate places. And it flies in the face of best practices for disaster relief, practically promising a punitive end: The federal government could pull back its support while still charging interest on any loan Congress approves.

One piece of good news for people on the island is that Trump—despite his threat—isn’t entirely in charge of relief. Acting Homeland Security Secretary Elaine Duke is visiting the island Thursday, and FEMA is bound by an aid request from Governor Ricardo Rosselló, as well as by disaster-assessment and -grant guidelines. And Puerto Ricans—often in the absence of help from authorities—have created their own support networks, taking in victims with destroyed houses and ferrying supplies in their own cars to communities in the interior.

But the situation will continue to be deadly for some time. Electricity, water, gas, and other basic necessities will be in short supply for months. Hospitals will struggle, trash and debris will mount, and environmental issues will continue. And Puerto Rico looks poised to contend with a White House that deprioritizes its recovery. Rosselló put it this way in a tweet Thursday morning: “The U.S. citizens in Puerto Rico are requesting the support that any of our fellow citizens would receive across our Nation.”

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After a year of uncertainty and unhappiness, the president is reportedly feeling more comfortable—but has he really mastered the job?

It was a fun weekend for Donald Trump. Late on Friday, Attorney General Jeff Sessions fired Andrew McCabe, the outgoing FBI deputy director whom Trump had long targeted, and the president spent the rest of the weekend taking victory laps: cheering McCabe’s departure, taking shots at his former boss and mentor James Comey, and renewing his barrage against Special Counsel Robert Mueller.

Trump’s moods shift quickly, but over the last week or so, a different overarching feel has manifested itself, a meta-mood. Although he remains irritated by Mueller and any number of other things, Trump seems to be relishing the latest sound of chaos, “leaning into the maelstrom,” as McKay Coppins put it Friday. This is rooted, Maggie Haberman reports, in a growing confidence on the president’s part: “A dozen people close to Mr. Trump or the White House, including current and former aides and longtime friends, described him as newly emboldened to say what he really feels and to ignore the cautions of those around him.”

Invented centuries ago in France, the bidet has never taken off in the States. That might be changing.

“It’s been completely Americanized!” my host declares proudly. “The bidet is gone!” In my time as a travel editor, this scenario has become common when touring improvements to hotels and resorts around the world. My heart sinks when I hear it. To me, this doesn’t feel like progress, but prejudice.

Americans seem especially baffled by these basins. Even seasoned American travelers are unsure of their purpose: One globe-trotter asked me, “Why do the bathrooms in this hotel have both toilets and urinals?” And even if they understand the bidet’s function, Americans often fail to see its appeal. Attempts to popularize the bidet in the United States have failed before, but recent efforts continue—and perhaps they might even succeed in bringing this Old World device to new backsides.

How evangelicals, once culturally confident, became an anxious minority seeking political protection from the least traditionally religious president in living memory

One of the most extraordinary things about our current politics—really, one of the most extraordinary developments of recent political history—is the loyal adherence of religious conservatives to Donald Trump. The president won four-fifths of the votes of white evangelical Christians. This was a higher level of support than either Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush, an outspoken evangelical himself, ever received.

Trump’s background and beliefs could hardly be more incompatible with traditional Christian models of life and leadership. Trump’s past political stances (he once supported the right to partial-birth abortion), his character (he has bragged about sexually assaulting women), and even his language (he introduced the words pussy and shithole into presidential discourse) would more naturally lead religious conservatives toward exorcism than alliance. This is a man who has cruelly publicized his infidelities, made disturbing sexual comments about his elder daughter, and boasted about the size of his penis on the debate stage. His lawyer reportedly arranged a $130,000 payment to a porn star to dissuade her from disclosing an alleged affair. Yet religious conservatives who once blanched at PG-13 public standards now yawn at such NC-17 maneuvers. We are a long way from The Book of Virtues.

A new six-part Netflix documentary is a stunning dive into a utopian religious community in Oregon that descended into darkness.

To describe Wild Wild Country as jaw-dropping is to understate the number of times my mouth gaped while watching the series, a six-part Netflix documentary about a religious community in Oregon in the 1980s. It’s ostensibly the story of how a group led by the dynamic Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh purchased 64,000 acres of land in central Oregon in a bid to build its own utopian city. But, as the series immediately reveals, the narrative becomes darker and stranger than you might ever imagine. It’s a tale that mines the weirdness of the counterculture in the ’70s and ’80s, the age-old conflict between rural Americans and free love–preaching cityfolk, and the emotional vacuum that compels people to interpret a bearded mystic as something akin to a god.

As the Trump presidency approaches a troubling tipping point, it’s time to find the right term for what’s happening to democracy.

Here is something that, even on its own, is astonishing: The president of the United States demanded the firing of the former FBI deputy director, a career civil servant, after tormenting him both publicly and privately—and it worked.

The American public still doesn’t know in any detail what Andrew McCabe, who was dismissed late Friday night, is supposed to have done. But citizens can see exactly what Donald Trump did to McCabe. And the president’s actions are corroding the independence that a healthy constitutional democracy needs in its law enforcement and intelligence apparatus.

McCabe’s firing is part of a pattern. It follows the summary removal of the previous FBI director and comes amid Trump’s repeated threats to fire the attorney general, the deputy attorney, and the special counsel who is investigating him and his associates. McCabe’s ouster unfolded against a chaotic political backdrop that includes Trump’s repeated calls for investigations of his political opponents, demands of loyalty from senior law-enforcement officials, and declarations that the job of those officials is to protect him from investigation.

The first female speaker of the House has become the most effec­tive congressional leader of modern times—and, not coinciden­tally, the most vilified.

Last May, TheWashington Post’s James Hohmann noted “an uncovered dynamic” that helped explain the GOP’s failure to repeal Obamacare. Three current Democratic House members had opposed the Affordable Care Act when it first passed. Twelve Democratic House members represent districts that Donald Trump won. Yet none voted for repeal. The “uncovered dynamic,” Hohmann suggested, was Nancy Pelosi’s skill at keeping her party in line.

She’s been keeping it in line for more than a decade. In 2005, George W. Bush launched his second presidential term with an aggressive push to partially privatize Social Security. For nine months, Republicans demanded that Democrats admit the retirement system was in crisis and offer their own program to change it. Pelosi refused. Democratic members of Congress hosted more than 1,000 town-hall meetings to rally opposition to privatization. That fall, Republicans backed down, and Bush’s second term never recovered.

Among the more practical advice that can be offered to international travelers is wisdom of the bathroom. So let me say, as someone who recently returned from China, that you should be prepared to one, carry your own toilet paper and two, practice your squat.

I do not mean those goofy chairless sits you see at the gym. No, toned glutes will not save you here. I mean the deep squat, where you plop your butt down as far as it can go while staying aloft and balanced on the heels. This position—in contrast to deep squatting on your toes as most Americans naturally attempt instead—is so stable that people in China can hold it for minutes and perhaps even hours ...

For years, the restaurateur played a jerk with a heart of gold. Now, he’s the latest celebrity chef to be accused of sexual harassment.

“There’s no way—no offense—but a girl shouldn’t be at the same level that I am.”

That was Mike Isabella, celebrity chef and successful restaurateur, making his debut on the show that would make him famous. Bravo’s Top Chef, to kick off its Las Vegas–set Season 6, had pitted its new group of contestants against each other in a mise-en-place relay race; Isabella, shucking clams, had looked over and realized to his great indignation that Jen Carroll, a sous chef at New York’s iconic Le Bernardin, was doing the work more quickly than he was.

Top Chef is a simmering stew of a show—one that blends the pragmatic testing of culinary artistry with reality-TV sugar and reality-TV spice—and Isabella quickly established himself as Season 6’s pseudo-villain: swaggering, macho, quick to anger, and extremely happy to insult his fellow contestants, including Carroll and, soon thereafter, Robin Leventhal (a self-taught chef and cancer survivor). Isabella was a villain, however, who was also, occasionally, self-effacing. A little bit bumbling. Aw, shucks, quite literally. He would later explain, of the “same level” comment:

Congressional Republicans and conservative pundits had the chance to signal to Trump that his attacks on law enforcement are unacceptable—but they sent the opposite message.

President Trump raged at his TV on Sunday morning. And yet on balance, he had a pretty good weekend. He got a measure of revenge upon the hated FBI, firing former Deputy Director Andrew McCabe two days before his pension vested. He successfully coerced his balky attorney general, Jeff Sessions, into speeding up the FBI’s processes to enable the firing before McCabe’s retirement date.

Beyond this vindictive fun for the president, he achieved something politically important. The Trump administration is offering a not very convincing story about the McCabe firing. It is insisting that the decision was taken internally by the Department of Justice, and that the president’s repeated and emphatic demands—public and private—had nothing whatsoever to do with it.